Three months later, I stood outside the heavy oak doors of Courtroom 3B.

The smell of floor wax and old paper filled the hallway.

My left arm was bound in a tight, medical-grade compression sleeve beneath my navy blazer.

The skin beneath it was tight, itchy, and still healing from the grafts.

Rachel stood beside me, holding a cup of lukewarm water.

“Are you ready for this?” she asked.

“I have spent my entire career in courtrooms, Rachel,” I said.

“But not as the victim,” she countered softly.

I adjusted the collar of my blouse to hide the scars creeping up my neck.

“Today I am just the witness,” I said.

The double doors opened, and the bailiff gestured for us to enter.

The courtroom was smaller than I expected, lit by harsh fluorescent panels.

On the left side of the room sat Margaret Brooks.

She looked smaller than she had in the kitchen, wearing a gray wool suit that seemed too large for her.

Her wrists were free of handcuffs, but two guards stood a few feet behind her.

Beside her sat Ethan.